Professionals
by A Trustworthy Fellow
Summary: They say that everyone has a role in society- a purpose. They preach that you can be whatever you want to be- a doctor, or a lawyer, or a teacher. They neglect to tell us that there is a darker side to the world- that some of us may end up as thieves, or scammers, or pirates. Or people like me- murderers.
1. Introductions

He was a lawyer, a gray-feathered avian in his mid-thirties. The ring on his left hand indicated a spouse, but I had no way of knowing if he had children or not. I suppose it would be less tragic if he didn't, but that didn't really concern me. What did concern me was that someone with a lot of cash wanted him dead. It was my job to kill him.

My client didn't provide any real reason as to why he wanted the man dead, but I could hear the hatred in his voice. All I knew was that my client wanted him dead tonight. He got his wish.

The target was, to my luck, asleep when I found him in his hotel room. I walked quietly to the bed and pulled a knife out of my tuxedo. I turned it on, smiling as I recognized the faint green hue of plasma rise from the holster.

Some professionals prefer traditional metal blades to plasma-constructed blades. I've never been very skilled with traditional knives; in my opinion, it is much easier to use a plasma knife as it removes the factors of pressure and resistance. A plasma knife can cut through almost anything with ease- the same cannot be said about a metal knife.

I looked down for a final time at what would become my victim. I stood there for some time in the darkness, contemplating what, if anything, significant would result of this man's death. It was silent with the exception of my breathing and the heavy storm outside.

I finished thinking and, carefully plotting the spot, slashed the man's throat. He didn't scream, because he couldn't. When you want to be quiet about killing someone, you have to find some way to stop them from making noise. Asphyxiation is a good try as the cuttoff of oxygen will naturally inhibit their speech. Another way is to sever the larynx, which is what I did.

The avian had only been concious for a few seconds before he went completely still. He wouldn't be waking up.

A few minutes later, after I knew he was dead, I searched his pockets and found a wallet. Opening the leather bifold, I found an I.D. and 3,250 Lylatian Federal Currency. The L.F.C. would be kept, and the I.D. destroyed. With any luck, the lack of identification will prolong the inevitable police investigation, and the ransacked wallet will make the crime out to be a mugging instead of a professional

assassination.

Finally satisfied with my work, I left the hotel. The storm outside had not changed in intensity, and I felt myself barraged by rain and hail as I made the journey to my car. As I took one last look around the near-vacant parking lot, I climbed into my car, shut the door, and drove away.


	2. Pain, and Revelation

The roads that night were a nightmare, with near-zero visibility and flooded streets. It was by some miracle that I made it back to my apartment unscathed.

I lived in an average-sized suburb in Corneria City, the capital of all of Lylat. It's not a bad place for a killer to make a living.

I had arrived in the parking lot of Lylatian Livingspaces, one of many buildings owned by one of many land contractors in Corneria City. I sat there in my car for about half an hour, waiting miserably for the storm to die down. I spent the time checking my appearance- assuring myself that I looked fine, and that I didn't get blood on my suit or in my fur. Once the storm had died down, I climbed out of my car, a black Fichinaan Crusier, and entered the apartment building.

Pushing past the glass double doors, I found myself in the lobby room. The building was a few years old, but it was still beautiful; the floor was made of luxurious golden carpet with a red trim, and wall speakers softly hummed classical music. The apartments, especially the upper level ones, were very expensive- the average Cornerian's salary couldn't touch the expenses. I, of course, did not live on the average Cornerian's salary.

I walked up to the receptionist, a purple-furred feline dressed in a business suit, and showed him my residence card; we greeted each other with a shake of hands. My fur was a dark gray color with a hint of blue, and several unnoticeable scars littered my arm from previous contracts. The receptionist quickly scanned the card and handed back to me.

"Have a good night, sir." He said drowsily, nodding his head and waving me away so that he could attend to another resident. I walked toward the elevator while examining my residance card. The card displayed basic information, like my name, Terry Shields, my species, Coyote, and a string of numbers that linked me to my apartment.

After taking the elevator to the eighth floor, I walked into my apartment, numbered 8-3. There were three rooms, the living room, bedroom, and kitchen, along with a door to a small balcony that you could see across the suburb with. The bedroom featured an expansive closet with a custom padlock combination; the room served as a sort of base of operations for my work.

Punching in the passcode on the padlock, I entered the closet and sat down in my desk. From my desk, I opened my laptop and contacted my client. Since I had left to fulfill my contract, my client had sent me several anxious messages, continuously asking if I had pulled off what he asked. I glossed over the messages, then sent a single reply- "It's done."

A few minutes later, I got a popup stating that money had been wired to my bank account. Happy with myself, I began browsing my email for anything of importance. One message caught my eye.

From: SVAS

To: TShields

Message Content: Terry, meeting tomorrow, you know where, at 8:00 P.M. Be there.

SVAS stood for Space-View Airlines Staff. The contracting agency I was enrolled in worked while under the facade of a commercial airline, allowing it to send agents off-planet without suspicion. So far, it's been extremely effective.

I complied to the e-message I had received and drove to the airline the next day. The sun had already gone down (we almost always work the graveyard shift), and only a few street lamps and the lights of other vehicles illuminated the road.

The SVA in Corneria City was, despite being the head of the operations for the contracting department, much smaller in comparison to others around Lylat. Rather than walking through the main entrance, I entered through an 'employees only' door located on the side of the building. The door led to a set of staircases, a few dimly lit hallways, and, eventually, a meeting room.

I knocked on the door of the meeting room. Almost immediately the door swung open, and I was greeted by the familiar face of my lupine superior, Miles Brown.

"Welcome, Terry. I'm glad you showed up, it's 8:15 and we were getting worried."

"...Yeah, erm, sorry about that..." I muttered sheepishly. I've never been a conversationist; it's incredibly difficult for me to speak casually to friends. I've never known why- I consider myself a sophisticated man, but I always falter in conversations.

Miles led me into the meeting room, gesturing to two others who were also in attendance. One was Cheren Rhoades, a red-feathered avian who I often took on challenging contracts together with, and the other was Lydia Bontreger, a gray-furred vixen who happened to be a new recruit.

The meeting room we stood in was semicircular, with two-way glass lining the uncurved wall to our backs. Miles once again grabbed my attention, saying, "Alright Terry, direct your attention to this man in the chair here." Miles pointed to the front of the room where a seemingly disgruntled canine was strapped into a metal chair. "This sad excuse for a spy was caught trying to steal company records. I want you to find out who he's working for. You're given permission to do whatever it takes, Terry. Space-View Airlines doesn't appreciate snitches."

I understood what he meant. I was what the others called me the 'torturer'; it was always my job to extract information from suspicious individuals. I can't say that I enjoyed doing it, but I didn't have much of a choice- if Miles Brown wants you to do something, you better damn well do it.

Miles motioned to another door in the room where he, Cheren, and Lydia exited through. They would be observing my handiwork and jotting down any information I got out of the spy.

I sat down in front of the brown-furred canine. Between him and I sat a desk with a file on the man and several weapons to make use of. I quickly began the interrogation.

"So, I see your name is... Matt Reinholt. Tell me Matt, what has my boss accused you of? Why are both sitting here today?" I asked. As bad as I was in casual conversation, I never faltered during meetings and interrogations.

"..." The man refused to speak with the exception of a few curse words under his breath. I picked up a small knife from the desk.

"Allow me to ask you again. Why are you here?' I asked, stabbing the knife into his hand. He shrieked.

"YOU STABBED ME!"

"Indeed I did. Would you like to answer me now?"

"I...well, urgh..." He muttered.

"Wrong answer." I replied, driving a second knife into his other hand. He squealed like a pig.

"I was here to...steal a few documents..." He finally sputtered.

"Good, good. This is progress. Now tell me Matt, what were you looking to take?" I asked.

"Err,..." He faded again.

"Work with me here, Matt." I said smirkingly.

"Go...hang yourself." He spat at me.

"Now is not the time for games Matt." I picked up a syringe filled with orange liquid from the desk and walked over to Matt's side, searching for a vein in his arm.

"What... the fuck is in that thing?" He asked.

My expression became stern. "I don't know Matt, let's find out." I plunged the syringe into his arm. Within seconds he was screaming.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"

"What information were you looking for?" I questioned.

"YOUR CLIENTS AND STAFF!"

"Who sent you here?"

"A GROUP OF PIRATES IN SECTOR Y! THEY WANT TO TAKE OVER YOUR AGENCY!"

"...I understand."

"NOW PLEASE, MAKE THE PAIN STOP!" He wailed.

"Gladly." I said, picking up a gun from the desk and shooting him in the head. The screaming stopped immediately, and the canine, blood streaming from his hands and forehead, fell limp in his chair.


End file.
